


i can feel the stockholm syndrome now

by FoxGlade



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Crack, Gen, probably, reckless abuse of PTA meetings, with apologies to anthony ainley's facial hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxGlade/pseuds/FoxGlade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>aka, the passive-aggressive baking war au. In which the PTA refreshment duty roster is severely abused, and Turlough finds himself caught in a war fought solely with snide remarks and weaponised desserts. Entirely against his will, of course, but the Stockholm Syndrome should kick in any day now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can feel the stockholm syndrome now

**Author's Note:**

> I blame shena for this, and so should you.

“Taste these snickerdoodles,” John Smith says crossly, shoving one of the offending biscuits at Turlough. He has three others cradled in his other hand, and is grumpily chewing on another. “I am _personally offended_ by them.”

“ _Why_.” He takes the biscuit despite himself.

“Rani said she made them with non-dairy butter. _Non-dairy_ , Vislor. In a _snickerdoodle_.”

“Please don’t call me Vislor.” He bites into the biscuit. It’s nice. Maybe a bit light on sugar, but pretty good. He says as much, and watches as Smith literally hisses.

“ _Don’t take her side_ ,” he says in what is probably meant to be a snarl. It makes him sound like a wounded golden retriever – essentially, he sounds in that moment how he usually looks.

“I’m not part of this game, don’t make me part of this game,” Turlough replies, finishing the biscuit.

“It’s not a game, Vislor! It’s a _war_!” Smith says, then scurries back through the crowded PTA meeting to where Ms Rani and Mr Masters are sitting smugly.

“What choices lead me here? What sins have I committed to deserve this?” Turlough asks the nearest potted plant. It doesn’t answer him, but it does droop in a vaguely disapproving manner.

 

* * *

 

Turlough is only scraping through Parent Teacher Interview night with his precious (and more importantly, endless) supply of coffee and the knowledge that he is smarter than every single one of these whining, self-important, middle-aged _idiots_ combined. Also, the fact that the parents were advised not to bring their equally idiotic children with them.

After the third round of “my kid’s a genius, they’re just not being _taught_ right, obviously the problem here is that you are a terrible teacher and not that my child is destined for below average scores in all subject areas”, it’s almost a relief to look up and see Mr Masters standing in his doorway.

“Oh, it’s you,” he says, without a hint of relief. Then, “Wait, do I even teach your child?”

“Details,” Masters says. “This is more important.”

“Does your child even attend this school? Do you even _have_ a child?” Turlough asks. Masters ignores him in favour of brandishing a Tupperware container in his face.

“Pay attention, simpleton,” he says. “Give this to the Doctor, if it isn’t too much trouble. Which it won’t be, I’m sure.”

“You know I have no clue who you’re referring to, yes?” Turlough asks, ignoring the man’s intimidating expression by focusing on his goatee. It’s faintly ridiculous, and not in the least bit intimidating.

“The Doctor!” Masters insists. Turlough stares at the beard. “John Smith,” Masters prompts.

“That man is a doctor? I weep for his patients,” Turlough replies. He frowns. “Wait, why didn’t you give it to him yourself? He was in here barely half an hour ago.”

“Don’t question me,” Masters says, once again waving the Tupperware in his face. He sets it on the desk and smirks. “Just get it to him, there’s a good chap.” And with that he turns on his heel and stalks out of the office, looking suitably dramatic in his all-black ensemble. What a tosser.

Turlough takes a moment to glare at the Tupperware before carefully prising a corner of the lid upwards and peeking inside. It doesn’t look like a bomb, or a cloud of noxious gas, or a body part – maybe he’d been giving the man too much credit. Blast that rubbish beard; it may be ridiculous, but it did give Masters the air of the sort of villain one sees in mind-numbing spy movies. Over-dramatic and camp he may be, but apparently he doesn’t actually go around sending deadly and/or threatening gifts. Turlough supresses a mild sense of disappointment – they couldn’t have expected him to do any more bloody interviews if a bomb had gone off on his desk, after all.

Instead, the Tupperware contains an unassuming pile of what he assumes are fudge slices. He sniffs them cautiously before lowering the lid back down. Better safe than sorry, after all.

The next parents pokes her head in the door and gives a friendly wave. Turlough stretches his lips in an approximation of a cheerful smile and ushers her in.

“That man that just came out of here looked all sorts of exciting,” she chatters, hands folded in her lap. “Who was he, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Fuck it, Turlough thinks. “What man?” he says smoothly. “I’ve had a small break in interviews – no one else has been in here in the last fifteen minutes, I’m afraid.”

The look on her face alone gets him through the next three interviews.

 

* * *

 

 _I can’t believe I’m doing this_ , Turlough thinks as he knocks on the Principal’s door.

“Enter,” a voice behind the door says, although the tone makes the word sound more like, “Kindly reconsider your decision to interrupt my terribly busy and important work with your puny mortal problems”. It was an impressive tone.

He eases the door open anyway, and smiles. “Hello,” he says easily. “I was wondering if you could pull the file on the parent of one of my students? I need his home address.”

“Get out of my office,” Principal Romana says, not looking up from her computer.

“Pleasure talking to you, ma’am,” he replies, backing out of the office and closing the door again.

 

* * *

 

He had a multitude of reasons for why he hasn’t simply eaten the fudge squares already, and forgotten that Masters ever interacted with him. For one, he still isn’t entirely sure that they aren’t poisoned. For another, he can't shake the feeling that eating even one slice would send him deeper into the rabbit hole that is this strangely aggressive baking exchange. He refuses to be part of something that includes the weaponising of desserts.

They sit on his kitchen bench at home for a total of three days, attempting to guilt him into giving them to their (apparently) rightful recipient. “Jokes on you, fudge, I don’t feel guilt. Never have, never will,” he says to the Tupperware container on Monday night.

At 11pm that same night, lying in bed and suddenly wide-awake with the realisation that he had spoken to a container full of chocolate slices, his resolve gives out.

 

* * *

 

If his early Tuesday morning English class notices that his mood was even more foul than usual, they have the good sense not to draw attention to it, and the even better sense to limit their interactions with him to a bare minimum. It gives him the strength to pull Tegan Jovanka aside once the bell has rung and the students begin to scurry on their way.

“Look,” he says, scowling with his hands full of Tupperware. “Don’t question this, but Mr Masters asked me the other week to give these fudge squares to your stepfather.”

Tegan, to her credit, barely even blinks. “Okay,” she says, and takes the container. “Don’t know why he couldn’t do it himself – he was at our house on Sunday.”

As tearing off his own eyebrows in frustration and rage in front of a student would guarantee a loss of his carefully maintained reputation, Turlough just sighs heavily and shoos her out the door.

 

* * *

 

“I hear they’ve known each other since birth. Their families all knew each other, and something terrible happened in their childhood that made them grow up as sworn enemies,” Peri says with relish in between sips of coffee.

“Nooo, I swear they’re all sleeping together, and all this passive-aggressive baking is some kind of messed up foreplay,” Mel argues. Turlough sinks deeper into the one good armchair in the staffroom and regrets ever bringing the subject up. He also regrets every coming to this school.

Ace makes an offended noise. “Gross! That’s sick; obviously they’re all related.”

“Can someone pass me a tea-towel to strangle myself with?” Turlough mumbles. “Maybe a cyanide pill?”

Peri leans over and punches his arm without looking. “You brought it up, you can live with it,” she says. Then, “Ooh! So which one is the evil triplet, then?”

 

* * *

 

“Those fudge squares were just terrible, absolutely awful. I mean what did he use, _artificial cocoa powder_?” Smith says, with the triumphant air of one who’s just told a joke that is sure to bring the house down. Rani snorts and holds up a hand for a high five. Turlough quietly tries to suffocate himself using the power of his mind.

He’s trapped in the corner furthest from the door, having been ambushed early in the PTA meeting by Smith, who was quickly joined by Rani. Masters has yet to make an appearance, and Turlough thanks whatever higher power that may exist for small mercies.

“He’s probably still deciding what to wear,” Rani says dismissively when Turlough dares to mention his absence. “There’s an awful lot of black to choose from, after all.”

Smith snickers behind his hand, and Turlough finds himself laughing against his will. The Stockholm Syndrome’s finally kicking in then, he thinks, just as Masters swans in through the door.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says with a charming smirk. “Family disaster.” He places a plate down on the food table and lifts the cover to reveal a batch of scones. “I did bring food, though.”

There’s a dull, excited murmur that reminds Turlough of when animals get fed at the zoo. Masters navigates his way through the crowd to loiter with them, and smugly hands each of them a scone.

“I’ll bet they’re dry as anything,” Smith challenges before scarfing it down in seconds. Rani eats more delicately, an air of disapproval around her like a cloak. “Eat it, Vislor,” he says to Turlough through a mouthful of crumbs. “The dry texture and bland taste will only make _my_ PTA baking contribution next month seem even more delicious!”

There was really no point in fighting it. He heaved a sigh, and took a bite.

 


End file.
